A Quirrellmort Compendium
by Mycroft-mione
Summary: Written for the Last Ship Standing Competition. [1] Circus!AU in which a ghost haunts the living. [2] Muggle!AU in which Quirrell can't swim. [3] Superhero!AU in which Voldi wants to be evil. [4] Muggle!AU in which Quirrell burns his pasta. [5] Gods/Goddesses!AU in which Quirrell is Hermes and Voldemort is Hades.
1. 1 - The Ringmaster's Revenge

**Word count** : 1,800

 **Written for** :

Last Ship Sailing Competition - Pairing: Quirrellmort. [Round 1 entry]. Chosen prompts: circus!AU, candlelight, knitting needles, navy, "Well, to be fair, you are pretty reckless". Bonus prompts: lazy, nervous habit, yellow.

Cards Against Humanity Competition - Q: What's fun until it gets weird? A: Dark and mysterious forces beyond our control.

Absolutely Insane Historical AU Challenge - #150: 1920s

The Game is On Challenge - "Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man can invent." - Sherlock Holmes

* * *

 _**This story is the first of a Quirrellmort collection written for the Last Ship Standing Competition on HPFC. It's a muggle!AU, a circus!AU, and contains a bit of crack. Read with caution.**_

* * *

 **1**

 **The Ringmaster's Revenge**

* * *

The knitting needles clacked loudly each time they met - a repetitive pattern, since they were being used to make a lovely warm scarf. Quirrell made circles with his hands, dipping the needles repeatedly into the yarn. Knitting was a nervous habit of his that he hadn't yet conquered. Yet it was better than doing nothing all night. Why had the boss forced him to act as guard duty when plenty of other performers could have done the job?

Candlelight flickered in the background, calling attention to the pitch-black skies that Quirrell could spy through the window. He wasn't under the striped tent; he was in the DeathDeath Brothers Family Circus guard shack, alone. All because the lion tamer Dolohov was too sick to do his normal Tuesday shift.

Quirrell tried to ignore his annoyance, focusing on his knitting. He'd almost finished the yellow-and-navy fringed scarf - it would be ready to sell at the local flapper boutique by morning. This put a smile on his face, which lasted past midnight into the early morning hours. But once he had made every possible adjustment to the garment, Quirrell could think of nothing more to do with his time. He sat in a hard wooden chair. He wasn't allowed to leave, or eat, in case he "became distracted" and "failed in his duties." As if _that_ would ever happen again.

So Quirrell was very bored when the first noise echoed around the tiny shack. He instantly stood up, grabbing his assigned nightstick and whirling around in hopes of spotting the intruder. But he was alone as ever.

"Hello?" he asked. "I must warn you, sir or madam, that I am armed." Quirrell waved his nightstick for emphasis, but there was no response from the outside or the tiny shadowed corner within the shack.

A sickly laugh swelled from nowhere, coming from above and then below and then right in Quirrell's stomach. It was impossible. The laugh was like a disembodied voice speaking from the beyond. Quirrel nearly called for his mother. But then-

"No weapon of yours could hurt me..." the laugher's voice said lazily. "Open your door and come outside. The air is sweet and warm."

Quirrell couldn't explain why, but he did as the voice asked and stepped out of the shack. Away from his post. Perhaps it was all a dream, and his greatest offense would be sleeping on the job.

"Who- what are you?"

He could feel the presence of something great, yet terrifying. A soul swirled around him, dipping in and out of his awareness - Quirrell thought he saw flickers of a face, but in a millisecond it was gone.

"I am the Ringmaster. For years I ruled over the DeathDeath Brothers Family Circus, but now I am nothing more than a spirit. A memory, if you will."

Before Quirrell could react, the spirit solidified into a ghostlike form. The man, as he could now see, wore a traditional Ringmaster's uniform, with all the frills and inches of top hat expected for a man of his profession. But it was all wrong. The ghost's face was deadly pale, barely human-looking. Quirrell stared.

"What's your name?" he asked bravely.

"Call me Marvolo."

"Marvolo," repeated Quirrell, speaking the strange word with his tongue as if it was another language.

The ghost interrupted his thoughts. "But as a performer, I was known as... Lord Voldemort."

"Lord Voldemort..."

Quirrell couldn't process what he was being told. What he saw. A ghost - growing ever more solid every minute - was speaking of his circus, but many years before - in the previous century, maybe. Weren't the 1800s a time of savage conflict, not amusement? Only recently had society progressed far enough to allow things like circuses and fairs to prosper... At least, that's what Quirrell had been told.

Marvolo floated in front of him, glowing ever brighter and more solid-looking. Quirrell, on the other hand, felt more and more tired.

"...Why are you here?" Quirrell asked finally, unsure of what else to say. He didn't want to offend Marvolo, but he wanted to finish the conversation before dawn. He had a sneaking feeling the ghost wouldn't stick around to see the freaks and beasts arrive in their jangling carts.

"I have always been here, watching over the circus," Marvolo said. "But tonight I saw promise in you, and decided to speak. Are you not grateful for my presence?"

"Of- of course I am," stammered Quirrell.

"Then I suppose you'll have to do," said Marvolo, sighing dramatically.

Quirrell scrunched up his eyebrows. "What? 'I'll have to do' for what?"

"I'll show you."

Marvolo floated high, higher, impossibly high into the night, then - without warning - dropped like a rock directly above his head. Quirrell ducked, but a cold shudder ran through him. He was locked into place, rigid as he stood, helpless to protect himself from Marvolo's attack.

"This- this is wrong. This is bad," he was able to mumble, squeezing the words between his frozen lips. Marvolo simply laughed, a painfully dry cough. It sounded like he hadn't laughed or even spoke in a long time.

"This is going exactly according to plan," Marvolo informed him. His voice was somehow inside Quirrell, travelling up his spine and into his head. Into his brain. That's when the world exploded and Quirrell collapsed to the ground, his nightstick lying forgotten by his feet.

.oOo.

His eyes opened to sunshine. He was outside. The sun beamed down from overhead, and Quirrell wished he wasn't wearing such warm clothing. The question, though, was why he had fallen asleep so far from the circus tent. Was he en route to feed the elephants?

Quirrell tried to sit up, but a heavy weight stopped him from lifting his head off the ground. His uncertain hand groped the back of his neck, feeling for the item that had surely become entangled in his hair.

There was no item. There was a lump.

A large lump.

His head was enormous, and the back had strange defined texture, almost as if - almost as if-

"A face!" Quirrell screamed, smacking his head in utter panic. "Get it off, get it OFF!"

"That's not very polite," said a familiar voice. But the voice was Marvolo's. And the voice was coming from the back of Quirrell's head.

Quirrell managed to get off the ground, but he immediately sank to his knees. "God Almighty, please free me of this devil that has clung so tightly to my soul."

"That's a bit impolite... referring to your new companion as a devil."

"It's _evil!_ It has _possessed_ me _!_ It's-"

Marvolo made a sound of surprise. "You guessed it. You've been possessed by a ghost of a man long dead and gone."

" _Please_ \- ...What did you say?"

"Ugh. What did I do to deserve this stupid a host?"

Marvolo jerked Quirrell's head up and to the side, like he was rolling his eyes. Quirrell stopped praying and closed his eyes, letting small tears escape. Only a few hours earlier life had been normal, if the slightest bit boring. But now, his life was destroyed. How could he ever return to the circus, where he would be presented as the newest freak at the freak show? That, or he would be hung. But neither sounded like a good option.

"How will I go on?" he asked in despair, not expecting anyone to answer. But Marvolo cocked Quirrell's head and responded, quite sincerely.

"Buy a turban. You can be the Great Zambini, explorer of foreign lands and the mystic tribes of the beyond."

Quirrell shook his head. "No one would believe that."

"Really? People will believe anything, as long as there's good money involved."

"D'you think so?" Quirrell asked hopefully, trying to turn his head and see Marvolo. (Of course, he couldn't.)

"Why not?"

Quirrell grinned a bit insanely - he would forget what had happened, and go about his business as usual, but with a turban. This was all a dream, anyway. Why not accentuate the hilarity of the situation?

.oOo.

Quirrell waved to the audience, bowing repeatedly as they whistled and applauded his act. As he left the ring, he whispered to Marvolo, who seemed to be listening intently. "Is bowing a risk? What if my turban falls off?"

"Well, to be fair, you are pretty reckless," countered Marvolo. "That act on the trapeze? And the one with the lovely young lady on the horse? If it didn't fall during those, I don't suppose a bow would be much trouble." Marvolo used Quirrell's arms to hug his head's side of the body. "You were wonderful!"

"Thank you," Quirrell replied, trying to be modest. But he knew Marvolo loved to flatter him. "And you're sure you didn't stare too long at the lovely young lady you speak of?"

Marvolo chuckled. "How could I? I can't see through the turban's fabric. Besides..." Marvolo paused, like he was trying to set a mood. "I have eyes only for you."

"That's beautiful!" Quirrell exclaimed. "Let's retreat to the outdoors for some privacy." He winked, but none saw.

"I'd like that," said Marvolo.

.oOo.

Marvolo breathed long and slow as he lifted his ghostly form out of the performer's limp body. They hadn't been together long before his energy levels became depleted, and he was no longer of any use to Marvolo. Possession death and a clean beginning was the only option.

He hadn't minded the man he'd chosen this time - what was his name? Quirrell? -After they died, the names seemed less important. What Marvolo cared about was the energy he'd stored, the pure life energy that fueled him. One day he would have enough to rejoin the human world, but today was not that day.

The circus days were just too much effort. Marvolo resolved to pick a better human next time - one less affected by a spooky introduction and wild love affair. Or perhaps one that would serve him without being tricked in that way.

He was ready to move on.

The days of Quirrell and Marvolo were over, and good riddance.

He'd spent years, decades, centuries - feeding on the human mind and soul. He was ancient, a relic of a time when men died slowly and painfully and begged for death. That, thought Marvolo, was probably why he felt the need to remain. To live again. Why should he peacefully accept his death when others were granted years of memories more?

Marvolo grinned. The 1920s provided him with an endless stream of lights, glamour, and action. Life was infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. Perhaps he would have enough stored life to be human again, once the decade was through.

In the meantime, it was time to claim a new victim.

The 'lovely lady on the horse' seemed like a safe bet.


	2. 2 - Swim With Me

Word count: 1266

Written for:

Last Ship Standing Competition - [Quirrellmort Round Two] Chosen prompts: (Object) seashell, (Emotion) nervous, (Word) splash, (Word) childish, (Dialogue) "I thought you weren't going to mention that again." Bonus prompts: (Second Genre) Humor, (Object) hat, (Dialogue) "I just want to know one thing."

Pokemon Go Challenge - Starter: Squirtle (water)

Hogwarts Defense Against the Dark Arts - Task #1: Write about a minor issue in a relationship. A difference of opinions, or a minor fight, for example. It can not be a major problem like cheating. The problem must be fixed by the end of the story. Prompt: (colour) white

* * *

 **2**

 **Swim With Me**

* * *

Quirrell dipped his toe in the water, an experimental foray, but instantly jerked it back onto safe, dry land. The current seemed much stronger than it had before, something dangerous, not innocent or playful. There were sharks! There were scary-looking plants! He couldn't understand why Voldemort insisted that they go to the pool.

Small children eagerly swam by, heading from the kiddie area where Quirrell stood to the deeper, unsupervised waters. Perhaps foisting his nervous panic onto them, he looked at Voldemort, alarmed. "Shouldn't they be accompanied by an adult, or someone of greater maturity and-"

Voldemort rolled his eyes. "You should be focused on yourself, Quirrell, as you're the thirty-year-old man afraid of water, while they can swim like fishes."

Quirrell frowned. "I thought," he whispered, "you weren't going to mention that again."

"You thought wrong."

Quirrell tried dipping more of his feet into the pool, but every splash from a passing swimmer made him recoil in shock and fear. He simply couldn't find the courage to dive in. Finally, Voldemort sighed loudly and grabbed Quirrell's arm.

"What?" he asked, defensiveness creeping onto his face in the form of a faint blush. "Are you embarrassed to be seen with a non-swimmer, or something?"

Voldemort flexed his massive white swimmer's biceps as he folded his arms. "No, I thought you'd like a snack break." He turned away and stomped towards one of the little buildings, forcing Quirrell to hurry to catch up. His bejeweled pink thong flip-flops were not up to the job, unfortunately. It took several minutes to shed them and meet Voldemort, who had decided to wait for him a few yards away.

"Oh-" replied Quirrell, feeling very foolish. "Well, then, let's go to the snack bar."

They ordered ice cream bars in the shape of a seashell and sat down at one of the old rotting picnic tables. Under their feet, real seashell fragments littered the ground, which made no sense, given that they were miles and miles from any real beach.

Quirrell and Voldemort ate their ice creams in silence, each staring at the food rather than at each other. Voldemort put on his wide-brimmed sun hat, clearly feeling the effect of the hot summer sun on his alabaster skin. They were forced to have their dates inside on most days due to Voldemort's rare skin condition, and today had only been an exception because the weather forecasters swore it would be cloudy. Quirrell, not wanting to argue about the heat, didn't comment on his boyfriend's hat choices.

He finally opened his mouth, ready to speak, when his words were cut off by some of Voldemort's. They looked at each other, then tried again, making the same mistake.

"I just want to know one thing-"

"I think you're being childish-"

Quirrell, having listened to what Voldemort was saying this time, was hurt. "Childish?" he repeated, trying to sort out for himself if that description was fair.

"You won't get in the water! Little kids half your size do, and they're perfectly fine."

"Okay," said Quirrell. "Fair enough." But he frowned again, setting down his remaining melted ice cream. How could his boyfriend be so cruelly honest?

"What I want to know is, what did _you_ want to know?" Voldemort added. "I explained my bit - now it's your turn."

"Well, I wanted to know how you find swimming so easy," he admitted. "You just leap in the pool and breeze past everyone you meet. But when I approach the water, it's like an enemy. I can't get near it."

Voldemort nodded, meeting sympathetic eyes with Quirrell's own. "It's hard to explain. Maybe... well, maybe it's because I don't see the waves as an enemy. I see them like a friend. You know?"

Quirrell bit his lip. "What do you mean?"

Voldemort paused, struggling to explain. But then his eyebrows shot up for a fraction of a second, and Quirrell knew his boyfriend had an idea.

"Maybe the issue you're having is that when you try to get in the water, you're leaving things you care about. Like me, for example. You're going somewhere unknown, where it feels like anything could happen, because - well, because I'm not by your side."

"So..." Quirrell began, starting to get the idea.

"So what if I was already in the water next time you try?"

He pondered. There would be no one to grab him if he slipped, no one to guard their belongings by the shore. On the other hand, he would be stepping into a safer place - all because Voldemort was there to greet him.

"Let's try it," he announced suddenly. Voldemort smiled, and Quirrell knew he'd made the right choice.

Holding hands, they ambled back to the pool, where children were starting to abandon their noodles and floaty balls in favor of warm towels and frisbees. _All the better for me and Voldemort_ , thought Quirrell. _Finally some peace and solitude_. He allowed his boyfriend to let go of his hand in order to climb into the pool, but Voldemort immediately looked him in the eye and winked.

"It's showtime."

Quirrell gulped. Now that the sun was setting, the foot-deep murky depths of the shallow end seemed even more ominous. He couldn't imagine stepping into nothingness, just assuming there would be something at the bottom.

He said nothing, sitting by the edge with his feet still dry.

"Come on!" Voldemort exclaimed. His red eyes flashed in frustration.

"Fine," Quirrell said. "Fine. If I die, I die. I just wish you'd help me in."

"I won't let you drown," promised Voldemort. He held out a hand, saying, "Start by sitting with your feet dipped in the water."

Focusing only on his boyfriend's face, Quirrell followed each direction that was given. He didn't think about what he was doing - couldn't think about it - for fear of panicking. So it was with complete shock and surprise that he noticed a cold feeling around his gut. Water. He was in the w-

"I did it!" he cried, spinning in a circle to see the water move. As he turned, he came face-to-face with Voldemort, who was grinning broadly.

"I knew you could do it," enthused Voldemort. "But I'm so proud of you."

"Thanks," said Quirrell, blushing. He couldn't help but stare at his boyfriend, whose swim trunks were becoming alarmingly tight. "Is that what happens in the water?"

Voldemort laughed merrily, a sound that drove nearby children running for cover. "Yes, the water makes _things_ cling."

Quirrell glanced down at his own skintight swim trunks, but his eyes returned to Voldemort's and he licked his lips. "No one's around..."

It was true. Night was falling, and Quirrell was sure the lifeguards would be yelling at them to exit the pool any minute now.

Voldemort nodded. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

Quirrell decided not to answer, instead leaning in and planting a kiss on Voldemort's rosy lips that quickly developed into something more. He was swept off his feet as Voldemort carried him into deeper waters, still kissing him with gusto. But he pulled away, breathless, his eyes cloudy but dark with fear.

"You know I can't swim, can't tread water... Voldemort, we have to get back to the shallows." His eyes were wide, but his boyfriend stuck out a leg for Quirrell to rest on and he felt a weight lifted off him.

"I Iove you, Quirrell," Voldemort whispered, diving in for another kiss.

Quirrell could only murmur "You, too" before he forgot everything but the taste of Voldemort's lips on his own.

The lifeguards decided not to intervene.


	3. 3 - Captain Quirrell and Dr Nose

Word count: 1,813

Written for:

Last Ship Standing - Quirrellmort [round 3]. Prompts: (AU) superhero!au, (Word) glorious, (Word) storm, (Emotion) impatient, and (Dialogue) "You don't have to leave." Bonus prompts: (Dialogue) "Where are your shoes?" and (Emotion) helpless.

Pokemon GO Challenge

* * *

 **Captain Quirrell and Dr. Nose**

* * *

It's London. 1980-something.

A message is delivered to the authorities through static on black corded phone. The Looney has been spotted, and it's known where she'll strike next. The man receiving the call listens, chewing on his lip. Another massive waste of time. There's never been a real call-in villain threat, not as long as he's been on the force.

But this time, he's told to listen. The stories are true. He stares at his superior's dead-serious face and dumbly picks up the phone again.

In the darkest depths of the subway tunnels, a monster lurks. Its blonde hair and savage disposition threaten the lives and sanity of all who cross its path. None yet have survived an encounter with this hideous beast, and few have the courage to brave an attempt on its life.

The listener nearly rolls his eyes, but when he looks up, three more guards haveentered the room, each clutching a pistol and a small radio. They mean business. And when he's finished the call and told them all he knows, he's shot to death.

No one is allowed to know what the government has been hushing up for years: The Looney is real. And it's hungry.

Two new heroes are about to challenge the supervillainous Looney. But can their superpowers save them from the danger ahead?

Enter Captain Quirrell and Dr. Nose.

* * *

While an innocent man is murdered in cold blood to prevent a well-deserved public panic regarding a bloodthirsty monster, the Captain and the Doctor can be found on the sofa, watching reruns of 'I Love Lucy.' They sigh in unison when the credits begin to roll. Quirrell slings an arm around his companion.

"Such powerful superheroes are we, yet Lucy Ball is better than us in every way."

"Mm- yes," says Dr. Nose. "But I'm not a hero. I'm a _villain_. You know that, but you always get it wrong!" He frowns, annoyed by the mistake. It's as if he's not taken seriously as a dangerous villain, enemy of all those pure at heart! He's mean, dang it. He's scarier than a nose! And noses are very scary.

"Oh, come on, you're not a villain. You're not evil enough. And noses aren't scary."

Dr. Nose leaps up, stomping his foot. "Yes," he says emphatically. "They _are_."

"Fine, fine," Quirrell rolls his eyes and accepts his friend's erratic choice of weapons. They settle down again, preparing for another lovely episode. But a bright bar of color flashes across the screen, and then a man's face pops up.

" _Reports are coming in that the Looney has been sighted. That's right, the great and terrible Looney. For those who are unaware, this villainous creature is said to be the archnemesis of many a hero - indestructible, vicious, and rearing for a fight. We're all, I'm sure, waiting to see which glorious hero or heroes will step up to save the city."_

Captain Quirrell looked at Dr. Nose. Dr. Nose looked at Captain Quirrell.

"This sounds like a job for…"

"Somebody else!" Dr. Nose tries. His companion just laughs.

"Oh, shuddup. Let's get our hero outfits on."

"I told you, I'm a villain!"

"Hurry up."

* * *

Captain Quirrell and Dr. Nose leap out of their secret lair, soaring down from the penthouse apartment window towards the streets of London. Their skintight catsuits flap in the wind, the flipper-like wings providing lift and stability as they begin a controlled descent.

Their feet hit the ground in a narrow alley between buildings, the perfect disguised landing spot. Now, they can begin Stage One of the Secret Plan. Quirrell rubs his hands together in excitement.

* * *

"Hey, what secret plan?"

"Shuddup, it's my idea. You'll see."

"It's not fair. You _always_ get to make up the-"

"You're just jealous."

"Am not."

"Are _too_!"

* * *

Dr. Nose, the most evil villain ever, leads his hapless companion out of the alleyway. Captain Quirrell isn't that useful, but it saves time not having to kick his butt yet again, so Dr. Nose brings him along.

Thanks to Dr. Nose's amazing sense of direction, the pair is able to spot the nearest subterranean parking garage. It's rumored that the Looney lived there, guarded by her most powerful allies. It's a simple matter of leaping over parked cars and security checkpoints before Dr. Nose and Captain Quirrell find themselves in front of the door that leads to The Looney's chambers.

"You go in," says Captain Quirrell, obviously terrified of confrontation with the renowned villain ahead.

"No, you go in," says Dr. Nose, always willing to give lesser supers a chance to shine.

* * *

"That's not how it goes! Captain Quirrell is the brave hero and Dr. Nose is the evil guy! You're not doing it right!"

"You're stupid."

"Let me go again."

"Fine."

* * *

They shrug, exchange panicky glances, then enter together, brandishing their weapons. It isn't quite a mighty show of force. Captain Quirrell raises his pink magic wand, and Dr. Nose reaches for his selection of nose-themed items.

"Noses are scary," he said to himself. "Very scary."

"No they're not!" hisses Quirrell. "Everyone has one. Who would be scared of their own face?"

Dr. Nose stops in his tracks. "I don't have a nose," he says. "I think they're very scary."

Captain Quirrell sighs. His ally's choice in weapons is sadly inadequate compared to his own superior powers over the color pink, but it has to do. Somewhere near where they stand, a monster lurks.

"Follow me," he whispers. Dr. Nose silently obeys.

They tiptoe past concrete walls and empty parking spaces, perplexed by the great room full of nothing. No one is there. But Quirrell is almost sure he hears whispers somewhere in the shadows. Whispers have to come from people, but there are no people in sight. It doesn't make sense.

"Dr. Nose…" he murmurs. "What did you say the Looney's power is?"

"She has invisible minions that she can control with her will."

Captain Quirrell gapes. He stands, slowly comprehending what this could mean. "...What did you just say?"

"Invisible min- Oh!"

"RUN!" screams Captain Quirrell, giving up all pretense of secrecy. They bolt, yanking limbs away from clutching fingers that the Looney's minions thrust towards them. But eventually they're caught, trapped amongst the mass of invisible bodies. Quirrell hears a snicker come from somewhere to his right, and smacks the air. A soft yelp is heard.

"Hello," comes a soft voice from the darkness. "How are you?"

"It's the Looney!" cries Dr. Nose. "Don't listen- her words are like magic. They'll snare you into a trap from which you'll never escape!"

"Who told you that?" Quirrel asks offhand.

"A friend…"

"Oh."

"Anyway…"

"You distract her," Captain Quirrell announces, "and I'll attack. Her feeble soldiers are no match for me."

"I can hear you," says the Looney, quite plainly. "I know your plan, now. I'll just tell my minions to avoid your attack. It'll be easy. Easy peasy." Her voice is casual, calming, and suddenly neither hero feels like attacking. But Quirrell firmly covers his ears, shutting out the Looney's voice, and smacks Dr. Nose in the face.

"Don't listen! Just pretend like you're still paying attention, and I'll finish what we came here to do!"

"Okay. But get on with it already."

Captain Quirrell breathes deeply, then launches his strongest attack at the Looney: the Pink-A-Palooza. It's a ray gun that shoots liquid pink onto his enemies. What could be worse than the power of pink?

But as soon as he fires, the world slows down, and he notices three things: Dr. Nose is applauding, the Looney has come out of the shadows, and the Looney, the blonde villain with the body of a young girl, is grinning.

"I'm afraid that won't work," she says sweetly. And the pink blast bounces off.

"I thought that was your stronges-" shouts Dr. Nose, but he's interrupted. The powerful dose of liquid pink, resolved into a ball-like form, smashes into him and knocks him to the ground.

"Doctor!" screams Quirrell. He dashes towards his friend, no longer caring about the Looney's dangerous presence. "Are you all right?" But he can see plainly that Dr. Nose is not all right. He's completely covered in pink. And - Quirrell knows this from experience - pink is _not_ an evil color.

"I'm melting..." wails Dr. Nose.

"No, you're not," Captain Quirrell says, trying to console his friend. He pats him on the back, but his hand squishes into a puddle of pink slime that's quickly hardening onto the Doctor's clothes.

"I can't get it off!"

But Quirrell's focus is on the Looney now. She has to pay for what she's done to Dr. Nose.

He leaps into the air, kicking out his leg and colliding with the Looney, who tumbles to the ground. After a brief struggle, he's subdued her, and it seems too easy. But it's true. She's softer now, more human-like and less foreboding. Why were they afraid before?

"This minions were cobwebs," he realizes, staring at the Looney that he's pinned to the floor. "The sounds were recorded."

She nods. "I thought you'd figure it out."

"You'll leave us alone?"

"If you let me be. I've had too many fake accusations thrown my way. I don't need more."

"Okay," he says, shaking hands with the most notorious villain of all time. It turns out she's just a girl with a taste for publicity.

Once they escape the parking garage, Dr. Nose begins to complain again. Captain Quirrell knows the pink hue won't damage his friend, just the attire, but he tries to make an effort. He tries to convince Dr. Nose that pink will make him seemed tougher, stronger. He doesn't buy it. The stormy look in his eyes says very clearly otherwise.

"Pink is _not_ an evil color! The other villains will make fun of me!"

"Oh, it'll be all right. I'm sorry that the color won't come off, but how about this: I'll buy us matching pink cloaks."

Dr. Nose pouts. "But-"

* * *

"Hello, Tom, dear! I've brought sandwiches! ... _Where_ are your shoes?"

"Mum..." groans the boy, tossing down the figurines he's clutching. "We were being superheroes."

She winks. "Did I hear something about pink? I assure you, pink is a very evil color..."

"No, it's not," says Tom, affronted. He folds his arms, sulking. "You always do this."

"I want to keep my boys well nourished!" Placing the platter of sandwiches at Tom's feet, she bends down and pinches their cheeks roughly. "So cute."

"Villains don't need their mums to bring them sandwiches."

"Oh, so you don't want them?" she asks, raising her eyebrows and picking up the platter as if about to carry it away. Tom and Quirinus make meek sounds of despair.

"...We want them."

"...You don't have to leave."

"I thought so."

* * *

Captain Quirrell and Dr. Nose eat their sandwiches on the balcony. It's been a good day.


	4. 4 - Dress-Up and Disaster

Word count: 1,829

Written for:

Last Ship Standing - Quirrellmort [round 4]. Prompts: (Action) setting a dinner table, (Action) staring at a clock, (Word) smoke, (Word) weakness, (Dialogue) "You don't mean that." Bonus prompts: (Color) grey, (Emotion) nostalgic, (Dialogue) "There's no need to be so rude." _Note: I used the idea of steampunk clothing, but not the AU, so I didn't count it as a full prompt._

Hogwarts Ancient Runes - Task #3: Write about a character doing anything in their power to stop a disaster from happening. This disaster can be anything (an exaggerated 'disaster' as well).

Pokemon Go Challenge

Gringotts Prompt Bank (60 prompts can be found below story)

* * *

 **Dress-Up and Disaster**

* * *

Quirinus stirred the pot of cooking spaghetti with a long wooden spoon, recoiling every few seconds when the steam scalded his fingers. He'd remembered the salt for the pasta water, made sure that the sauce was homemade, not jarred, and thought to dig out candlesticks from his dustiest drawer for ambiance. Everything was perfect. Yet he stood by the stove, glaring at the cooking pasta for practically burning his hand off. Apparently there were some things even a Julia Child recipe couldn't fix.

The book came from the library. It was a well-worn tome that had suffered many spills over the years, but it looked too heavy and expensive to be replaced often. Quirinus had flipped through the pages, wanting to impress his boyfriend. A full chicken, marinaded in flavored oils and roasted in the oven? Some tacos made with London broil? A lasagne, maybe?

He'd settled on pasta - simple, tasty pasta with sauce and cheese - that morning. His only hint to Voldi was an eyebrow waggle and the words, "Be home early tonight, sweet pea." Quirinus loved Voldi, but his boyfriend's busy job left him alone too often. They needed to have a nice date once in a while, even at home.

Hopefully he'd gotten the hint. Quirinus played with the spoon, stirring the pasta much more than was necessary as he pondered. Had he been clear enough with Voldi about their evening plans? Maybe he hadn't-

" _So no one TOLD you life was GONna be this WAYYYYYYYY_..."

"Oops!" Quirrell whirled around, abandoning the food to answer his phone. He allowed himself the obligatory _clap-clap-clap-clap-clap_ before he picked up and ended the ringtone, a clip from one of his favorite shows on Netflix. "Hello?"

"Quirinus?"

"Oh, hi Voldi. What is it?" Quirinus held his phone between his ear and shoulder to attend to the pasta. It seemed fine, so he let it be and headed into the dining room to set out the plates and things.

"Nothing much, but I don't think I can make it home early, babe."

"What?" he exclaimed. Quirinus covered the mouthpiece and sighed. How could he explain that he had a date all set up, something time-dependent, since the pasta wouldn't stay warm and _al dente_ forever? He finished laying out the silverware, admiring his handiwork. So domestic.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. But- why can't you make it home early? I was expecting you in fifteen minutes, Voldi." Quirinus straightened and held the phone to his ear normally, walking around the house absent-mindedly as he spoke.

"I've got a meeting! It's important, don't you see?"

"Can't you get out of it?"

Voldi made a hesitant sound. "I'll try..."

He decided to use his last bit of convincing power. "Voldi, do you know what I'm wearing right now?"

Voldi seemed startled, but amused. "Why, what are you wearing?"

"You'll find out when you get home," Quirinus said, purposefully teasing his boyfriend. Sometimes the only way to attract his attention was to act like a proper flirt.

"Yes, yes I will," was the reply, and he heard an audible gulp. "I'll leave now. But the traffic might be an issue."

Quirinus sighed, not bothering to conceal it this time. "Do the best you can. Just think about me waiting here for you."

"Okay. Bye, babe."

"Bye-"

The call had already ended. Quirinus, who had been pacing as he talked, tossed the phone onto a seat cushion in the den and sat down himself, staring at the clock on the wall. It was more comfortable to lie on the sofa and stare than look at his phone. He didn't know why; it just was.

He continued to stare, his mind drifting and thinking about paint colors, house plants, gardening... the clock continued to move, but the hands no longer pointed to numbers... at least, Quirinus couldn't read them...

He snapped out of his doze. BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! The smoke alarm was spazzing out somewhere on the first floor. BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

He stumbled to a standing position and rubbed his eyes. The pasta. BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! He'd left it cooking during the call, and fallen asleep on the job!

It was simple enough to stop the irritating beeps, but he entered the kitchen still seeing the reason for the alarm's noises of panic. The pot on the stove had bubbled over minutes ago, leaving scorched pasta on the stovetop and water all over the floor. It coated his socks, making him hop about in agony as the water burned his feet.

Quirinus managed to turn off the stove and pour the pot's remaining contents into the sink, shielding his hands with two massive oven mitts. But afterwards, the cleanup seemed insurmountable. His kitchen had turned into a swimming pool of death. Smoky water vapor in the air had dyed his window treatments dark grey, and he began to cough for the same reason.

It was at that moment - the floor covered in water and fragments of spaghetti - the windows shades stinking of smoke - the apartment air dirtied - that the phone rang again.

"Accept call!" Quirinus yelled, hoping his device would follow the voice command and go on speakerphone mode. He knew he'd succeeded when Voldi's voice came crackling from the distant speakers.

"Hey, babe..." said his boyfriend lazily. "Listen, I know I'm late, and I'm working on it, but I had an idea. Let's just say, you won't be the only one dressed up tonight."

Quirinus shook his head in alarm. He hadn't actually gotten dressed up the way Voldi expected; it was just a trick to bring him home. And now Voldi had some plot to do the same? What could he possibly wear if he wasn't at-

"Oh," he murmured. "Oh no."

"Did you say something?" Voldi asked. He seemed excited, much more than he was on their previous call. Quirinus knew this was a bad thing, and it would only be worse when he arrived.

"Yes! Yes, I said the kitchen's a disaster - and I know what you're planning to do, but don't bother! Really! There's no need."

Voldi snickered. "I think there's need. Don't you want to see my outfit?"

"I know that outfit..." Quirinus insisted. "And I don't like it! It doesn't suit you! Besides, the kitchen's horrible, destroyed, and it could get dirty!"

"Excuses, excuses. I see what you're doing. It's called reverse psychology. I bet the kitchen's perfectly clean and gleaming."

"No! Voldi, please!"

"See you soon, babe."

Quirinus sank to the floor, no longer caring that he was getting wet and dirty. How was he supposed to know that Voldi had a trick up his sleeve?

He'd seen this mystery outfit before. And nobody but him seemed to recognize that it was weird. But of course he had to pretend-support his boyfriend when he first bought it. He couldn't insult something his boyfriend loved. ...Quirinus regretted that now.

He thought back to the days before Voldi. He'd had his own life, full of surprises and learning and fascination. He'd been able to travel as he pleased without worrying about bringing a partner along. He hadn't had to worry about domestic disasters and a boyfriend's strange interests.

But really, he'd been alone, jobless, practically friendless. Voldi changed everything.

Knowing that he could do nothing to say the kitchen or prevent Voldi's imminent arrival, Quirinus stayed where he sat, thinking and musing and waiting. A few minutes later, Voldi burst through the door and Quirinus made a minor effort to stand up and look presentable.

"Hey, babe!" Voldi announced. Quirinus rolled his eyes out of sight. Yep, Voldi was wearing full steampunk attire.

His slim torso was concealed by a thick vest and jacket, with a frilly white dress shirt underneath. A golden watch and chain peeped out of a suit pocket. Voldi was wearing high-heeled boots on his feet and a top hat on his head. His eyes were concealed behind large, industrial-looking goggles, but Quirinus assumed an expression of delight was fading from there upon observing the scene.

"Hello... I see you're here."

"There's no need to be so rude," Voldi said, reaching out to ruffle his hair. "Give me a warm welcome! Go on, touch my outfit. It's real wool, you know."

"No, I- I'd rather not."

"Oh, Quirinus, you don't mean that. You're not fooling anyone."

"I'm fooling you, apparently! Because you think I love that costume like you do! I'm sorry, Voldi, but just because that era is a weakness of yours doesn't mean it's a weakness for me. Take off those goggles and look at me. Do I look happy?"

Removing the goggles, Voldi did a full turn, gazing at his boyfriend and then the mess of a kitchen as if only now noticing it. "You've had a rough evening."

"Yes," said Quirinus, sighing, "and that's why I'm not delighted to see you like this."

Voldi was quiet. Tugging at his pocket watch chain, he sank onto a chair, not realizing that Quirinus had placed a pile of wet and burnt spaghetti there. It looked like he was about to divulge some inner feeling or secret when he suddenly leapt up, grabbing his backside in pain.

"AHHHH!" he shouted. "My trousers!"

Quirinus came to the rescue, slinging floor-water at the stain. Laughing, he splashed more water onto his boyfriend and himself until they were both dirty and soaked beyond repair. Voldi was laughing too, now.

"That-" he tried, "was dinner, right?"

"Yeah!"

They collapsed together onto the floor, laughing until the tears dripped from their eyes and mixed with the puddling pasta water. Quirinus no longer cared about the kitchen, their clothes, their ruined date. He just wanted to savor this moment with Voldi.

"Hey," he said. "At least you didn't bring me flowers. I bet those would've been even worse off once I was finished with them."

Voldi chuckled. "You've never been the homey type. But you try. And that's what I love abut you. You care enough to tolerate my stupid steampunk fashions, too." He smiled sadly, looking down at the soggy remains of his suit.

"Aw, Voldi, I never hated your outfit. In fact..." Quirinus had an idea. "...You look quite splendid in it, even muddy and wet."

Voldi's eyebrows twitched. "Thank you," he said, his voice velvety and smooth. "You look lovely as well."

They met eyes after glancing at Quirinus's soggy dress pants and t-shirt, both utterly ruined. "Yes, yes I do," replied Quirinus. "You know how we'd look even better?"

"Together?" Voldi quipped.

Quirinus's grin broadened. "What is this, the fiftieth date?"

"I think it would be entirely appropriate if we moved this to the bedroom," Voldi said, standing up and then slipping back down, tumbling onto Quirinus when he landed. They broke into laughter again, Quirinus grabbing his boyfriend's chin to kiss him. After a long, slow kiss - slightly wet - he pulled away, meeting Voldi's shining red eyes.

"I don't see why not," he said with a smirk.

* * *

.oOo.

* * *

Various Prompts: Sherlock - (word) okay, (word) clean, (noise) ringing phone, (action) crying

Various Prompts: The Rescuers - [Action/Plot] A phone ringing, [Action/Plot] Being Late, [Action/Plot] Wearing goggles

Various Prompts: CSI New York - (clothing article) Black suit jacket, (colour) White, (colour) Grey, (object) Clock, (jewelry) Watch, (action) Walking, (clothing) White dress shirt, (colour) Red, (action) Grinning

Various Prompts: The West Wing - [Feeling/Emotion] frustrated, [Feeling/Emotion] flirty, [Feeling/Emotion] enraged, [Feeling/Emotion] proud

Various Prompts: Navy CIS - (object) white blouse, (object) a cellphone, (action) smiling, (action) answering the phone, (action) tricking someone, (action) crying

Various Prompts: Code Breaker - (Sound) Laughing, (Word) Scorch, (Action) Eating, (Action) Staring, (Emotion) Certainty, (Emotion) Determination, (Emotion) Shock, (Emotion) Outrage, (Emotion) Exasperation, (Emotion) Suspicion, (Emotion) Pure Love, (Scenario) A misunderstanding, (Scenario) A Realization

Various Prompts: Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog - [Plot/Action] Mumbling, [Plot/Action] Waiting for someone to turn up and they don't show, [Plot/Action] Talking about a date, [Plot/Action] Two people having opposing different views, [Plot/Action] Pacing, [Plot/Action] Accidently hurting the person you love, [Item] Goggles, [Item] Sweater-Vest, [Feeling/Emotion] Confident, [Feeling/Emotion] Frustration, [Feeling/Emotion] Shock, [Feeling/Emotion] Helpful, [Word] Way [Word] Slipping [Word] Horrible [Word] Burn [Colour] White [Colour] Red

Various Prompts: Bambi - [Colour] Red, [Plot/Action] Hearing a strange noise

Word Prompts: Household Vocabulary - (word) Watch


	5. 5 - The White Bouquet

Word count: 1,563

Written for:

Last Ship Sailing Competition - Quirrellmort [round five]. Prompts: (AU) Gods/Goddesses!AU, (Word) delicate, (Word) fresh, (Dialogue) "I didn't volunteer for this.", (Dialogue) "I don't understand." Bonus prompts: (Emotion) jealous, (Object) bouquet, (Color) white, (Dialogue) "That tickles!"

 _Note: I've matched many of the Greek gods to characters from Harry Potter. See if you can guess who is who!_

* * *

 **The White Bouquet**

* * *

"What in Zeus's name is this?!" cried Zeus. There was no higher authority for him to swear upon - after all, he was Lord of the Skies. He accepted the object presented to him by a spirit of Olympus and stroked his beard in thought.

"Well, tell us, Lord Almighty Zeus, or we'll all go mad from boredom," Hera snapped. Her folded arms interrupted the flow of her golden dress and showed the irritation she felt towards her husband. Zeus always had a flair for drama.

"It's a bouquet," he said slowly, looking at the parcel from every angle. "White flowers, all white. Even the stems."

The other ten Olympians waited at their thrones, watching this interaction with weary eyes. Their council meeting had taken hours, and only now, when Zeus was about to conclude the session, did the messenger deliver an item that sparked his fascination? Their leader was mighty, sure, but he loved pretty things, especially those that were white, shiny, or expensive. Only Hera could talk sense into him.

Poseidon raised a ringed hand into the air. "Zeus, couldn't you let the rest of us have a look? I'm sure Artemis or Demeter would love to examine these flowers."

Zeus paused, then stared at Poseidon. "As you suggest, brother."

The Olympians rose from their thrones and gathered around a small glass table that Hephaestus fashioned out of thin air. Their voices mingled in the massive hall as the bouquet was passed from hand to hand and examined.

"They are flawless!" cried Aphrodite. "Beautiful... like myself."

"Who could have sent them?" Athena wondered. "Perhaps-"

" _I'm_ the messenger god," said Quirrell, who had watched but not spoken during the excitement thus far. "I should have known about this..."

No one heard his comment, so Quirrell quietly returned to his throne. The delivery was nothing but a simple bouquet. Why did the others fuss over it so? He fussed over his caduceus until the noise died down. Suddenly, he looked up to see Athena's eyes meeting his own.

"There's been a discovery, Quirrell, and you'd better take a look."

Wordlessly, he followed the goddess back to the glass table. Beside the flowers, now neatly deposited in a floating vase, was a note written in elegant handwriting.

 _A gift goes to twelve who will fuss, gaze, and fight;  
_ _The youngest shall choose from them all.  
_ _The one who's deserving, the greatest delight,  
_ _Will take the bouquet and the hall._

"Aren't I the youngest?" Dionysus was saying. It was true, to be honest - Dionysus had gotten his position among the twelve when Hestia offered up her seat - but Quirrell wanted this opportunity.

"That doesn't count," Ares snarled. "You're barely a god." He was about to continue, but Zeus glowered at him.

Athena continued her succinct overview. "The point, Quirrell, is that you get to decide which god or goddess deserves this bouquet the most. We do as the prophecy commands. Apollo has made that quite clear."

"Indeed I have," said the god of music, poetry, and prophecy, winking at Quirrell.

"So, it is your move now. Speak." Athena invited Quirrell to take her seat at the table, and he had the slightest feeling that she was trying to skew the odds in her favor.

But he sat, gazing at the delicate, fresh blossoms. He took a whiff, then sighed. "I didn't volunteer for this," he said finally. Casting aside the bouquet, he looked at each of the others in turn. "I can't make this choice. I mean... it doesn't matter. D- Does it?"

Artemis frowned at him. "This bouquet is a thing of beauty. It is a piece of nature, and, in fact, I believe that these white flowers are Mimbulas, extremely rare specimens that should not be tarnished-"

"There's no such thing as Mimbulas, Quirrell," said Apollo. "Please, ignore my ridiculous twin."

"Excuse me, Apollo, but _I_ was the one on the expedition, and I saw these exact flowers on-"

"ENOUGH!" boomed Zeus, causing the entire group to jump in their seats. Even the thrones rumbled. "Quirrell, I have had enough of this nonsense. Choose now."

Quirrell frantically looked the flowers up and down, then the Olympians, trying to decide what made one more worthy than another. His mind couldn't focus, so no words escaped his lips. Any choice would win him an ally, and leave him with ten enemies. There was no way to win. No option he wanted to take.

"Quirrell?" someone asked. He shut his eyes tight and picked the first name that came to mind.

"H- Hera!"

Quirrell opened his eyes.

The queen of the gods was smiling warmly at him as she snatched the bouquet from the table. "I'm glad you made the right choice. That will be all!"' Hera stood and planted the bouquet on her throne, turning and gliding out of the hall.

He knew there were ten pairs of eyes left in the room, all glaring at him. But before a shouting match could break out, the door slammed back open.

"There was a flower distribution party at Olympus and no one invited me?!" shouted Voldemort, Lord of the Dead.

Murmurs were heard among the eleven gods and goddesses as they whirled around to see the tall, black-cloaked man.

"You are not permitted on Olympus, Voldemort," warned Zeus. "And you would do well to follow that rule."

"I am not permitted during council meetings," Voldemort said, sneering. "But I am permitted when such meetings are over. This squabble is in no way a feature of your council, so I'm free to linger as I like."

"That's not how it works!" Athena objected, but the others had already begun to argue again. Quirrell stared openly at the man in black, who was watching his fellow gods in amusement. When Voldemort noticed him, he jumped.

"The man of the prophecy, I presume?" asked the Lord of the Dead.

"You say that like I'm a man, not a god." Quirrell shuffled his feet, hoping to seem strong and godly. But the form he'd taken was that of a young man, not a seasoned warrior.

"You're a young god," Voldemort offered, echoing his thoughts. "But I'm still interested. Interested in you. Interested in why you didn't choose me to be the _greatest delight_. I don't _understand_."

"You weren't in the room," said Quirrell weakly. "There was a lot of pressure. I didn't think you were an option."

"Your mistake," Voldemort snapped. He turned away, folding his arms and sweeping his cloak behind him as he began to pace the floor.

Quirrell thought he saw a certain glint in the god's eyes, and felt daring. "Jealous?"

"Me?" asked Voldemort, astounded. "Jealous?" He frowned. "Watch your mouth, Quirrell. You know what I'm capable of."

Quirrell just smiled. "I'm a god. You may be powerful, Voldemort, but you can't take a god's soul with you to the Underworld."

"Bah. That's not my point." Voldemort ran his hands over his smooth skull as if trying to wear it away.

"What is your point? That you'd like the bouquet?"

"Yes, maybe it is!"

Quirrell's mouth dropped open. He'd expected it to take much more than that for Voldemort to confess. But here he was, standing beside one of the strongest gods in Olympus, a majestic, beautiful, deadly god who wanted his bouquet.

"That can be arranged," Quirrell said quietly.

"Really?" asked Voldemort, stepping closer to Quirrell and speaking in a husky, dangerous voice. "Take it away and give it to someone new? I like your style, Quirrell."

Quirrell locked eyes with Voldemort, gazing slightly upwards, as he was a few inches shorter in his current form. He could feel energy radiating off the god's skin - either the power of an Olympian, or a few lingering spirits making a bid for freedom.

"It'll just take a minute." Quirrell flashed another shy smile, then turned towards the center of the hall, where the other ten stood, staring. "My earlier choice was a mistake. I recant my words. I choose... Voldemort."

The bouquet spun into the air, lifting itself away from Hera's throne with some unknown magic and sailing towards Voldemort, who caught it deftly in one hand. He inhaled deeply to catch the blooms' scent, offering it to Quirrell as well.

Protests erupted from the elder gods and goddesses, but the pair with the bouquet heard nothing. A moment later, Voldemort sneezed.

"That tickles!" he cried, sniffing. "Tickles my nose - sorry, Quirrell."

Quirrell couldn't help but laugh as he watched the stately, spooky god fumble to keep from sneezing. But when he looked up again, Voldemort's gaze was severe.

"You would do well to respect the Lord of the Dead."

"Yes - yes, of course," he replied, holding back a grin. Before anyone could speak, Quirrell grabbed Voldemort's hand and said in a loud voice, "I've never visited the Underworld before. Thank you for offering to take me there, Voldemort."

The god understood immediately. "Anything for the man who chose me!"

The others were aghast, angry, amused, but Quirrell ignored all of them, dodging a miniature lightning bolt from Zeus and a splash of seawater from Poseidon that attacked the pair as they fled the hall.

"I'm glad I chose you."

"I'm glad I convinced you to."

No servant of the gods on Olympus that night could miss a pair of gods vanishing from the mountain-top, hand in hand.


	6. 6 - The Waiting Game

Word count: 903

Written for:

Last Ship Sailing Competition - [quirrellmort round 6] Prompts: (word) Loud, (action) Forgetting someone's name, (emotion) Afraid, (dialogue) "Have you heard the news?" (setting) The Hog's Head. Bonus prompts: (dialogue) "Just relax," (action) Playing chess, (emotion) Calm.

* * *

 **The Waiting Game**

* * *

It was almost like something from a story, thought Quirrell, slouching down in his grubby booth. Unlike the more popular The Three Broomsticks, this place was sparsely attended, gloomy, and dripping with suspense. He tried his best to fit into the background, becoming invisible to the passersby on the street, but he jumped at a sudden sound every few moments. It was unnaturally quiet. Spooky.

His eyes darted around the Hog's Head, making out only shadows in the distant corners of the shabby little pub. There was certainly no one else of note around, just the old woman by the counter and the shriveled figures at a nearby table playing chess with bone-like white pieces. He made sure to glance at them regularly, just in case.

Quirrell grew impatient. How long would he have to wait?

Maybe he should have bought a drink. This thought occurred to him at precisely the wrong time, just after the bartender slipped into the back room, out of sight. He forced himself into the open and padded towards the bar, wishing he could disappear.

Resting a cautious hand on the soiled wooden counter, Quirrell opened his mouth and then closed it. What a perfect time for his mind to go blank!

"Ex- excuse me," he whispered. Immediately, the three other occupants of the pub whirled around and stared at him. Trying to ignore their eerie faces, he searched his mind for the owner's name. "Can I get a...?"

"What?" a bald man grunted, appearing out of nowhere and with enough surprise to coax life signs from the old witch on the stool. It toppled over, sending her sprawling, but she picked herself up with her wand, and the bartender didn't seem to notice. "What do you want?" he asked. His voice was slick.

Quirrell became glad that a name wasn't needed to talk to this man. "Tea, please?"

"One firewhiskey it is," was the response, and although he wanted to argue, he silently handed over a few sickles for his drink. The man was all business. He wouldn't appreciate a fight, not even if it drew in a new customer or two.

"Talk to me, Quirinus," the bartender said. His expression was blank, unreadable, and it startled him. He couldn't bring himself to make eye contact.

"H-how do you know my name?"

The bald man narrowed his eyes. "You're a fool if you think I don't know you - and everyone else who enters my pub. None can hide from Voldemort, and ears hear farther in the dark."

Quirrell gulped down a mouthful of his drink, trying to escape the unsettling conversation. It was a mistake. The liquid scorched his tongue and throat, forcing him to gag and drink water from his wand until the sensation abated.

"Are you finished?"

He was. "I'm sorry..." Hesitating, he decided to engage the man, who obviously wanted something from him. "I'm sorry, what should I call you?"

"Voldemort will do. I am a Lord, you see, but that's too fanciful for ordinary conversation. Certainly not appropriate for entertaining a special guest in my establishment..."

He licked his lips with every 's' sound, almost exactly like a snake. It was hypnotizing to the ears.

"I'm waiting for someone," Quirrell heard himself say, although his eyes were now locked onto the bartender, who stared at him with such a bold smirk. Was that true? He could no longer remember plans of any sort, only his desire to visit Hogsmeade and drink something warm into the evening.

"Not anymore." Voldemort straightened, giving Quirrell a better look at his long, limber body, and blasted the front door shut with a flick of his wand. The chess players across the bar, so easily startled by Quirrell's voice, seemed indifferent, shrugging and continuing their game. The pieces, somehow, hadn't moved.

It finally occurred to Quirrell to be afraid, and he was, slightly; though the loud blast had caused him to jump, he didn't mind staying right where he was at the bar. Newfound curiosity took away his jitters, leaving him as calm and collected as Voldemort's killer voice.

"I'm not complaining, but I don't see why you'd do that, especially when it blocks out potential customers from entering," he began, but Voldemort cut him off, holding up a single slender digit that signaled silence.

"Have you heard the news? I don't care about customers. I have all the gold I need, and besides, I want you."

Quirrell breathed deeply, forcing a smile off his face. "I wasn't aware of that. The Prophet should really keep us more informed."

"Indeed," Voldemort said, and a smirk appeared on his face again. "Just relax. I'll have them taken care of soon enough."

Something about his words played at Quirrell's mind, and it was only minutes later - as he found himself behind the counter, only inches from Voldemort - when the meaning sunk in. "What d'you mean, taken care of?" His face showed the horror he felt as he imagined the horrendous possibilities. "What are you talking about?"

Voldemort shook his head, amused. "Forgive me. It was nothing." And he dove towards Quirrell, capturing him in his arms. His vision went fuzzy, and his body stopped feeling, in some kind of sensation overload, but Quirrell felt himself fading in and out of conscious thought with words swimming through his mind.

 _What was I waiting for?_

 _What- who else was I..._

 _Waiting for?_


	7. 7 - Town of Two

Word count: 1,418

Written for:

Last Ship Sailing Competition - [round seven Quirrellmort].  
Prompts: (action) Sitting in a tree, (action) Watching the sun set, (word) Innocent, (object) Pack of cigarettes, (color) Golden.  
Bonus prompts: (word) Feverish, (dialogue) "You'll be the death of me.", (color) Peach, (action) Burning something, (object) Umbrella.

Hogwarts Music History Assignment - "Carmen" by Bizet. Option 1: Listen to the piece and write a story that is inspired somehow by that song. Ideas: listen to the song as you write, write a story that reflects the tone of the piece/how it makes you feel, write a piece that occurs during the musical time periods.

 _Note: I listened to the opera video, and decided to work off of its tone for my story. Part of the song was sort of mysterious, which I attempted at the beginning, and then it gets more jovial, so I worked in some banter and quick dialogue between the boys. I hope you enjoy!_

Year-Long Scavenger Hunt Competition - C5: Write about spending a winter night outside.

* * *

 **Town of Two**

* * *

Light rain fell through the trees, spattering the sidewalks with dark round marks and weighing down plants so that they drooped low. The sky was thick with clouds, grey and murky, like the depths of a faraway shadow. In the streets, lamplight flickered through foggy windows, forcing the sun's weakening rays to light the town singlehandedly. The days were getting shorter, leaving night in sole control of these late November afternoons.

 _(Children ran through puddles, soaking their shoes and the hems of their clothes in dark, cold water as they ran to their doorsteps.)_

A crumpled umbrella tumbled down the road. Its edges of folded-over black nylon were slick with water and dirty from soil, and the metal points were dull, worn down after hours of scraping against pavement. Abandoned by mistake, it lay askew in a drain until the wind caught it and flung it further away from where it started. On the looped handle, a faint carving declared it the property of a Miss Bathilda Bagshot.

 _(An old woman sat alone in her house, resting by a cold, unlit fireplace, and waited for someone who she'd forgotten would never come home.)_

Seven o'clock came quickly in the old town. Seven o'clock was suppertime, if they had enough food in the house to call it that - and if they didn't, they would still make sure their kids were home. Mothers called to innocent children, scolding those without the sense to play indoors, and families came together, all home from their various hiding-places.

 _(And the others did nothing, because rainy days were far from out of the ordinary, and it was better to lock the front door than stumble out to fix the gutters, even if it_ did _mean a messier yard when they woke up the next morning.)_

But this town was no cheerful, peaceful suburb. If the mothers called in their children, it was because they were worried - worried that the shadows who stole through town as the light grew faint would choose their children to capture and torment. It was children themselves, some said, that did the hurting - but others told tales of a malovolent spirit. A ghost from olden days. It didn't matter.

And they weren't wrong. Not really.

. . . . .

Two boys stood under a young oak tree; one tall, pale, and slender, his companion of shorter stock, and they contemplated the fading light with practiced amusement.

"So many of them," the taller boy said, smirking. "So many to steal from. So many foolish, stupid people."

"Yes!" The shorter one was quick to reply, looking for validation from his friend - or associate. His eyes darted around as if he were constantly afraid of some hidden danger. Perhaps the stories were true, after all... But in the span of a second, his expression changed to one of greed and hunger as he eyed the flap of the taller boy's pocket.

"Want a cigarette?"

A clean, brown box emerged from the pocket, and the taller boy slid it open to reveal the ends of a dozen smokeable bits of paper. His companion jerked forwards, his hand extended as if to reach for one. He paused in midair. "Please... Tom... Gimme one?"

The boy just laughed, pulling away the box and closing it with a snap. "Nobody gets a light tonight, Quirrell."

Silent, sullen, the hand curled away.

The older boy, Tom, stared at him. "They're mine," he said. "Maybe, if you got a good haul, I'll share." He faced the town again, wiping a bead of rain from his nose.

Shorter, smaller Quirrell matched his gaze, albeit a few inches lower in the air. They were quiet for a moment, eyeing empty space.

Tom, a moment later: "I'm going higher up."

Quirrell, following him, scampered up the tree onto a well-shaded branch.

. . . . .

Tom examined their combined loot, having ordered Quirrell to dump out his pockets into his waiting hands. His fingers breezed over the various objects, feeling their shapes and textures with his eyes shut, like a blind man. But his nostrils flared, and his lip curled, little signs that the boy was pleased with his lot. Tom suddenly blinked, barely having to adjust to the light at all.

"That Bagshot woman was filthy rich," he said, barely able to contain a feverish grin. "Or maybe her husband was, if she had one. Look at this gold brooch." And he stuck it in Quirrell's face - being careful, of course, not to let it out of his grasp.

"It's pretty." Quirrell stared at the jewelry, admiring the golden exterior and the tiny peach-colored gems studding the sides. "Better than anything I got."

Tom tore his eyes away from the thieved items, frowning. "Yes," he complained. "Yours aren't nearly as good." Picking up a scrap of paper, he waved it in the air, then crumpled it into a ball and tossed it to the ground. "Grocery list. Who wants that?"

"Hey!" Quirrell exclaimed, reaching to catch the ball before it fell. He missed, and the ball disappeared before his eyes into the shadows.

"Nobody, that's who." Tom continued, shaking his head. "You have to do better, or you can't go around with me. You'll be the death of me, Quirrell."

But Tom didn't understand, he thought. It wasn't just any bit of paper, and gold couldn't teach him how to read. "I wanted it."

Tom laughed, batting his eye with the fist still holding the brooch. "That's funny. It would be ridiculous to want something like that when you could have this." He held up the fist, watching it as he did.

"Tom," he began, looking down. "Sometimes I wanna go to school."

There was silence. Quirrell looked up to make sure that Tom hadn't fallen off his branch in surprise. "Tom?" he repeated.

A cold stare. "Yes?"

"What do you think?" He paused, his small face crunched up with effort. "I wouldn't do it without you."

The taller boy was there, but his expression was strange. "I didn't think you meant it," he said quietly. "Why would you want to leave me, the person you've followed about ever since you could remember? Why? Why now?"

Quirrell widened his eyes. "I wouldn't leave you!"

Tom sneered right back. "And why wouldn't you?"

"We've got to be together."

"Yes," said Tom, satisfied. "Yes, we do."

. . . . .

He didn't mention schooling again, hoping to keep Tom from anger, and it seemed to be doing the trick. The older boy was pleased, still looking at their treasures and deciding how to sell them secretly in the market, when he looked carefully at Quiirell and nodded to himself.

"Maybe a light wouldn't be so bad," he said suddenly. And he pulled a fresh cigarette out of his pocket, placing it on Quirrell's branch with the utmost gentleness. "Take it," he nearly whispered.

"What?"

"Now!" was the exclamation. Bewildered, but feeling an inward thrill, he accepted the gift. Not knowing how to light it, he held the cigarette helplessly until Tom swiped it against the box.

( _Flame arose out of nothing, heating the air around his palm and shocking him into inhaling a puff of smoke._ )

Coughing, Quirrell held the tip away from his mouth, but looked at it with fresh, new eyes. It gave him a feeling he'd never had before: a sense of really belonging. Tom had struck up a flame as well, sending his own sprinkle of ash towards the base of the tree.

"Put away the loot," Tom urged him, so they sat together on the tree branch, carefully puffing at their little logs of flame and pretending it didn't choke their throats.

"Tom," Quirrell said in a small voice. "I like being robbers with you."

His companion smiled, a rare thin, unwavering line stretching across his face. "I know." He eyed Quirrell with a knowing look. "I don't think you're going to school, are you?"

 _(And the answer was obvious, on the tip of his tongue like he'd been waiting years to say it.)_

"You're my best friend."

Tom nodded, narrowing his eyes and clutching the loot bag closer to his chest. "I'm your only friend," he corrected.

They stayed in the oak tree until night truly fell, and Quirrell could not balance on the branch with his weary eyes and unsteady limbs, so they moved to the hard ground. He took off his threadbare jacket to make a pillow for Tom.

And it was in that way that the two shadows of the little old town finally fell asleep.


End file.
